Rhapsody
by lamb-knife
Summary: "I'll just say, in all kindness, I hope you'll have a couple of 'known acquaintances' in your life. They do help pass the time." - Rachel DuBerry Rosencranz to Clarice Starling, Hannibal, Chp. 57 A short, intimate moment shared between Rachel DuBerry (before she married) and Hannibal Lecter, long before the events of Red Dragon. Suggestive. More-or-less SFW.


**Rhapsody** (noun):

_Music_. An instrumental composition irregular in form and suggestive of improvisation.

An unusually intense or irregular poem or piece of prose.

Rachel DuBerry balanced a slim cigarette between her red lips, leaning in to Hannibal Lecter as he struck a match and brought the flame to its tip. The bed's fine cotton sheet was wrapped tightly around her torso, teasing a glimpse at the plunge of her breasts as she took a drag on the menthol and leaned back against the downy pillows. She blew out a tendril of smoke, watching its fine white fumes twist and curl in the late morning light as she savored the taste of cool mint on her tongue. The room was warm but comfortable as a breeze drifted in from the open veranda, which she assumed Hannibal must have opened while she was in the restroom freshening up after their morning romp. Sea salt wafted in with the wind off of the French Riviera, and Rachel could taste it on her tongue in between puffs. She took her fill then offered the cigarette to Hannibal, which he accepted.

"I'm so glad I'll never marry you, Hannibal. I think it would make me hate you. Marriage tends to do that."

He took a long drag from the menthol and exhaled before answering, first flicking the ash into a clay dish near his elbow. "It's why marriage requires vows, Miss DuBerry. Otherwise, very few would stick around."

Rachel rolled onto her side to face him, a tendril of blonde hair falling on her shoulder. She ran a manicured hand across his coarse chest hair while he enjoyed their smoke. There were three short, swollen red lines she'd left on him earlier.

"I believe a girl should only marry for money. At least then you can leave with _something_." Through the open window, Rachel could hear the faint notes of an Edith Piaf ballad echoing from one of the antique shops lining the street. "And no 'Miss DuBerry' here, please, Hannibal. It's Rachel or Eloise. First or middle but not maiden, it reminds me too much of my mother."

"As you wish, Rachel." Lecter took one final drag before passing the cigarette back to her, being careful with his exhalation so as to not blow smoke into her face. He was clean shaven, but she could see dark stubble beginning to poke through.

"Besides, I'm not a maiden. Not biblically, at least," she said around the slim. She took a drag and stretched wide, giving him both a wink and a brief glimpse of her breasts before curling back into the pillows again.

"I wouldn't want to know you if you were."

A thin smile stretched across her face as she finished the menthol. She reached over to her bedside table and crushed the butt in a pearlescent oyster ash tray that dimly glowed in the late morning light. She knew the sheet had slipped an inch on her top as she leaned, and she could feel his maroon eyes moving across her. She relished it.

"You're fun, Hannibal. I've always liked that about you. Not like those stodgy cognac and cigar men my mother's always pushing me towards."

"I'm afraid I enjoy both cognac _and_ cigars, Eloise." She gave him a sideways glance. "I haven't decided which name is second-best for you yet, since you've taken the lovely 'DuBerry' away from me."

"Oh you're terrible at pouting, Hannibal, you can never hide the joy you get from your incessant teasing." She turned back to Lecter and lightly wrapped her left arm over his chest, curling up against his side like a cat. His chest smelled faintly of amber and orange; he always wore the Pierre Cardin when he was with her. Hannibal's fingers played languidly in her hair.

"Besides, you know what kind of men I mean. _Business_ men. They smell like a factory just from spending time in it, even if they never lift a finger. Rich, but reeking of sweat and grease and spreadsheets."

"And do you suppose you'll marry one of them? Make your mother proud?"

"Of course. At least one. Maybe two, if they're both rich. It would be easy to get married to them. I'd already hate them."

"But not me."

"No, never you." Rachel leaned upwards and kissed him then, enjoying the caress of their thighs meeting as she rolled half on top of him under the white Egyptian cotton. The light, leftover scents from her late night spritz of Chanel No. 5 before bed mingled with their lips and teeth and tongues, the lovers tasting notes of bitter orange neroli and floral ylang-ylang in between soft lips and the brush of rough stubble.

She left a kiss on his cheek before resting her head on his chest again.

"You like your cognac and your cigars, but you don't have the musk of a business man on you. You're clean, curated. And _fun_. Those business men don't know how to have fun. _Or_ how to fuck. For them, it's missionary at 9 o'clock in the evening for ten minutes, fifteen if you're lucky, then 'goodnight, sweetheart.'"

Hannibal couldn't help but chuckle. The tenor was like a quick glimpse into a core he so rarely showed her. She wondered, briefly, what color his soul might be. Then his hands found her waist, thumbs raising goosebumps over her sides and buttocks, and her thoughts wandered far from the soul.

"Sin should never be wasted, only enjoyed."

"And do you have another sin in you this morning?" Rachel smiled coyly, leaning into the role of the minx that she so loved playing for him. She could be as kittenish as she wanted, and he never skipped a beat. It made him so very different from the humdrum Henry's of Baltimore who were all either business men, or worse yet, _politicians_.

She briefly imagined what it would be like to be married to one of those stodgy business men, standing on the terrace of her Riviera mansion in a rich emerald gown while inviting lovers like Hannibal to her bed. If she could pause and hold a moment forever, this one would be as good as any.

Marriage would certainly ruin their magic for her.

"Yes, but I'm afraid it'll have to be my last one until at least noon." His arms were massaging her back now in gentle circles, and she was reminded again of how much fine-tuned strength his wiry frame concealed.

The doctor's hands came to a rest on her hips as she sat up, the sheet falling back so that they were both exposed. The gentle sounds of the Riviera and of that Piaf ballad poured into the room from the open door, and her bare back tingled as a cool breeze buffeted her bedhead.

"Well then, we'll just have to make it worth our while, won't we?"

"Naturally, Miss DuBerry."


End file.
